


one, three, two

by undeliveredtruth



Series: svt requests & randoms [8]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 00:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19415086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undeliveredtruth/pseuds/undeliveredtruth
Summary: Minghao always gets the middle at the end. The feelings between enemies and lovers, the nothingness between pain and pleasure. The emptiness, the indifference.





	one, three, two

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon on CC who requested the angsty junhao enemies to lovers/stockholm syndrome. I am very sorry you had to be sacrificed to my angsty, short writing exercise, but I think I do these short things better? I don't know? I actually like this idea a lot, so I hope it's good! <3

"You're here again?" Minghao asks, walking into his apartment. Junhui's lounging on his armchair, twiddling with the pen on the table to the side of it.

"Mhm. Felt a bit off. Thought I'd come let it out on you."

Minghao scoffs under his breath. Throws his keys on the side table, hangs up his long coat.

It's been a long time since the sight of Junhui in his apartment meant danger. Probably at the same time their hands on each other turned from wanting to kill to wanting to pleasure.

There's a fine line between pain and pleasure, between love and hate, between enemies and lovers.

It's not like him and Junhui crossed it once and then that was it. No. They toe it every day, step over it and back constantly. Sometimes they're not even on the same side, and those are the times when it hurts the most.

Physically and mentally.

There's something inside Minghao that loves Junhui. The sight of him lounging in _his_ place, the only thing that he owns, his small apartment. The slight playful smirk on his face. It's almost cute. In any other universe, he would have had a loveseat, not an armchair. Or a couch. A comfortable, expensive couch, bought from a nice furniture store. To match the rest of their living room, a large TV in front of it.

Junhui loves Studio Ghibli movies. Minghao would have made him watch his indie ones, the artsy ones that leave Minghao slow, thinking for a few hours. Maybe he would've liked those too, liked them because Minghao does. He wouldn't have gasped at them as he does at the twists in the cute, romantic movies he likes too, but maybe his eyes would be large, his mouth open, admiring the ideas. Junhui would've understood them. He's smart.

Minghao takes his blazer off. The shirt feels uncomfortable underneath, the material too tight on his skin. The buttons press into his fingers when he unbuttons it, slips it off his shoulders, letting it fall on the floor.

Like this, Junhui can see it. Bites his lip, his eyes laying on it right away. No matter how many times they've done this, Junhui always takes his time to watch it.

His name above Minghao's heart. The only thing tainting his skin. The lines of the three characters are thin, delicate, but it doesn't make it less rough. Less powerful. Less constricting. His mark on Minghao's skin, permanent.

Sometimes Minghao sees it in the mirror when he gets out of the shower, water dripping from his hair. He rubs at it, like it will go away.

"Come here," Junhui orders. Minghao walks to him, to his armchair, straddling Junhui. The armchair's too small for it to work, so Minghao turns around. It's how Junhui wants him anyway.

His hands on Minghao's back, traveling over them, over his protruding ribs, laying on them, squeezing tight, always burn. Minghao feels fragile, like if Junhui once squeezes too hard, he'll break under his hands.

Every day, Minghao goes out, seduces people. He's a master at expressions, at pretending to be a mystery, someone to be caught, pursued. The thrill of the chase, of making the prey seem like they are the wild animal, Minghao knows how to do that well. Right up until they break, and someone else sweeps in to serve the killing shot.

Minghao is always careful for blood not to touch his skin or his clothes. Sometimes he fails. This time, there's a little patch of blood on the waistband of his pants.

Junhui sees it right away, pulls at it.

When he'll go home, he'll know who it is. It's probably waiting for him on his desk, his assistants are waiting for him to shout at that one of his men is dead. That it's getting worse, boss. They're coming in, boss. You need to do something, boss.

"You wouldn't have to see blood again if you came with me, darling."

Not sleep with the enemy, that is.

Minghao unbuttons the one button of his pants, drags the zipper down. Gets up to shuffle out of them, shuffle out of his underwear too, until he's naked, bare. The only thing on him those dreadful three characters.

Minghao doesn't need to turn around to hear Junhui getting out of his own pants, underwear, dropping down in his armchair again. Minghao doesn't want to see him, but he can feel Junhui's hand on his, tugging him back in his lap. 

He feels him. Pressed to Minghao's back, his hand pressing over his chest, over his name.

Minghao's hard. So is Junhui, grinding up on him slow, his hand tugging at Minghao's cock, dry, rough. He bends him over, until his fingers can slip inside Minghao, lubed up. Like in staccato, like Minghao's missing steps. Has missed many, in the grand scheme of things.

It feels good, when Junhui enters him. It's messed up, that Minghao knows nothing will ever be able to fill him up as good as Junhui's cock does. Nothing will ever feel like the tingle of his fingers on his chest when he pulls him back for his sweater to press against his back.

Nothing else will spark that lightning inside him, make him shudder when Junhui hits his spot. Minghao moans, grinding down on him, trying to get him deeper. More, more, as much as he can, get him, get all of him. His chest pressing on him, his thighs under Minghao's, his arms, his hands on Minghao, branding himself on his skin. His breaths in Minghao's ear, high-pitched, letting him know how much he enjoys it. 

It _burns._ Nothing is ever as good as a soulmate's touch. Nothing reaches inside Minghao like that, feeling like it's filling his veins, the emptiness in his body, in his heart too.

He always feels _full._

He comes in Junhui's hand, feels his come fill him up right after.

Complete. _Finally._

He feels the come drip down his thighs when he turns around, straddles Junhui, face to him this time. Junhui's eyes are open, questioning. He's not like Minghao. He doesn't play in the darkness, doesn't build his home in insecurities, in doubt. Junhui's straightforward. A creature of the day who owns everything of the dark.

Junhui's always been forward with what he wants, and he wants Minghao. 

In another universe, Junhui would be Minghao's the same way he is Junhui's. Minghao would be a leader too, would be the calm to Junhui's temper, the tameness to his excitement, the peace to his chaos.

Minghao's gun is where it always is. In the slot he dug to the left of the armchair. Minghao feels it up, pulls it, his hands sure on the trigger.

When he presses it on Junhui's temple, Junhui closes his eyes. Leans into it, his expression peaceful, no smile on his face.

Minghao pulls the trigger. It makes an empty click. He pulls it again. Another empty click.

Junhui opens his eyes, looks into Minghao's. Grabs his wrist, pulls it down, to press it over his heart.

Maybe if it's there it would work, Junhui tells him without words. Maybe if it's over Junhui's heart, where there are no characters from Minghao's own name, maybe Minghao would've loaded the bullets, driven by the sight of the flawless patch of his skin.

One, three, two. Minghao always gets the middle at the end. The feelings between enemies and lovers, the nothingness between pain and pleasure. The emptiness, the indifference. Because the truth is, he doesn't complete Junhui. Only Junhui completes him.

Junhui leaves. He'll come back another time. Maybe then Minghao's bullets will be loaded.

\---

Jeonghan walks into his apartment, takes him in his arms, even though Minghao's not crying.

"Don't tell Seungcheol."

"I won't, darling," he whispers, petting at his hair.

"I'll do it next time."

"You won't," Jeonghan hugs him tighter. "That's alright. We get it. We get it, darling. You don't have to."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
